


White December

by WhyWouldIEver



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blizzards & Snowstorms, John and Abigail are bff, Kissing, Legend of the East satchel logic, M/M, Oblivious Pining, Pining, Soft Boys Because It's Christmas, arthur angry arthur sad arthur is confusion, i love myself for that pun, now they’re treeeeee tree fallin’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyWouldIEver/pseuds/WhyWouldIEver
Summary: John's been avoiding Arthur for years, much to Arthur's confusion. A blizzard rolls in when they're riding back to the gang after a job and now they gotta find a way to keep warm while cooped up in a tiny shack to wait out the storm. Naturally, some secrets are revealed.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 47
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon divergent AU in the sense that everything is different (no Micah, no Pinkertons, no misery, etc), but they're still outlaws. There's four parts that I'll be posting every other day until the 23rd. 
> 
> I want to dedicate this story to everyone that's read what I've written this year. I hope there was something you've enjoyed! Especially gaslight, Aldrig, Ryu_No_Jouu, DaintyKeith, and the lovely people over on Discord! Thank you for all your kind feedback and the chat fun, too. I hope you'll enjoy this bit of Christmas silliness. 🎄🎁😊
> 
> Happy holidays if you celebrate something this time of year! And if not, then I wish you the happiest end to the sucktastic year that is 2020! May 2021 be a little less shit, eh?

_Now._

The wind roars in Arthur’s ears and sleet whips painfully at his face as he guides Boadicea up and over a bank of snow. She whines unhappily, exhausted from pushing hard through the storm. It’s getting colder and colder with night fast approaching and Arthur knows they ain’t gonna make it back to town in this weather.

He lifts a hand to the brim of his hat in a futile attempt at blocking the freezing pinpricks against his cheeks and tries to keep track of John’s silhouette a few yards ahead. He’s nothing more than a hazy blur in the waning sunlight, and Arthur can only just manage to locate him through the snowy onslaught. 

“Marston!” he shouts.

“What?!”

Arthur can barely make his voice out over the wind. “Oh, this is bad,” he mutters to himself. He shouts louder in John’s direction. “We gotta find somewhere to stop.”

“We can make it!”

“We gonna freeze to death, you stubborn fool,” Arthur snarls.

John must see sense for once because he pulls his horse to a stop and waits for Arthur to ride closer.

“What about Abigail? And everybody else? We can’t just leave them.”

“For Christ’s sake, Marston. They’re holed up back in town, they’ll be fine. But we ain’t gonna be if we don’t get out of this storm.”

John looks miserable as he weighs his options. “Fine,” he says unhappily. “But where? I ain’t seen a thing for miles.”

“I think there was a house not too far back. I saw a glimpse of it through the trees.”

John sighs, his breath a plume in the freezing air. He looks off in the direction they were headed to meet back up with the gang but turns toward Arthur instead. “Lead the way.”

  


* * *

  


Even with the wind blowing against his back rather than directly into his face, Arthur nearly misses the house, only spots it at the very last second before passing it by completely. He pulls on Boadicea’s reins to guide her up the slope, the proper path long buried under a good few feet of snow.

Arthur shines his lantern on what’s little more than a beaten-down shack with a small barn alongside it and sighs. But with nowhere better to go, he and John work fast to get their horses settled inside the barn and hope it’s secure enough to keep them warm through the night.

The two of them trudge through the snow to the house and Arthur picks the lock on the door, his fingers gone clumsy and numb from the cold making it harder than it has any right to be. John is an annoying distraction behind him, stomping his feet and jumping in place in a sorry attempt at giving himself something else to concentrate on rather than the freezing, wet chill. 

There’s not much to it once they finally step foot inside. A small fireplace along one of the walls, a rickety table nudged up close to a counter with a sink, and a single bed tucked into the corner.

“I claim the bed,” Arthur says the second he spots it.

“What?” John kicks the door shut and beats the snow from off his shoulders. “You can’t just claim it.”

“I can and I did.”

John sighs and throws his satchel down near the empty, cold fireplace. “Fine.” He drops down on hands and knees and situates himself as comfortably as he can, annoyed but not willing to put up a fight about it.

Arthur stands there watching John scoot his back around on the floor as if it might soften right underneath his shoulders given enough determination. “We’ll need to scavenge some wood in the morning before we figure out when to head out again.”

John grunts, then turns over on his side instead, his back an impenetrable wall.

Arthur sighs. He tosses his satchel on the floor alongside the bed frame and sits down gingerly for fear of the bed collapsing the second he’s got his full weight on it. Conversation has been business-only on John’s end ever since Hosea and Dutch sent Arthur out on this job in Javier’s stead. He has to assume it was a pointed choice on their part rather than Bill or Charles or anyone else, really. Not a soul in camp was unaware of the bizarre tension between them, or the fact that John had long ago frozen up tight when it came to anything having to do with Arthur.

He climbs in under the threadbare blanket, hoping to draw some warmth to his frozen, aching bones, and falls asleep staring a hole into John’s back, his mind like a dog with a bone wondering the same as he has for these last couple years what the hell went wrong and how he could’ve missed it in the first place.

  


* * *

  


_Then_.

It’s like the snuffing out of candlelight as far as Arthur’s aware. From one day to the next it seems like John has an about-face when it comes to teaming up with Arthur on jobs. It confuses Arthur greatly if he lets his mind wander down the path because by all rights it makes no sense at all. They’re good together, is the thing. They had each other’s backs and knew the stakes better than near anybody else could given they all but grew up in the life. Arthur needed distraction, John needed direction, and that had been that.

They robbed stagecoaches together, trains, banks, even random assholes who couldn’t be bothered returning a greeting when passing them by. The two of ‘em would leave the bastards hogtied right there on the road, their pockets a little fatter, laughin’ and hollerin’, sometimes near egging each other on. And the crux of it all was they got _good_ at it too. Hosea said once that it was like they’d developed their own language in those few years they rode together. With nothing more than a look, John knew when to let Arthur take the lead. With nothing more than a gesture, Arthur knew when John was tellin’ him something was afoot.

But that’s what makes it all the more confusing when, as if from outta nowhere, John doesn’t wanna have a goddamn thing to do with him anymore. He goes off hunting for jobs on his own and he’ll ride back into camp with the look of a man too pleased with himself for his own good or angry as hell with the injuries that tell everybody exactly why. And every time Arthur can do nothing but stare in confusion _._

For Arthur’s part, he just goes about life as he’d done before. Dutch sends him off to do something or another and he does it, off to rob someone or another and he does that too. There’s always folk that need a little bit of _encouragement_ and that’s been Arthur’s specialty now for years. 

So what really bothers Arthur isn’t that John decides he works better alone. It’s the fact that John avoids him completely even between jobs. There are no more late-night games of poker, no more drinking around the campfire. If Arthur’s around John finds somewhere else he needs to be.

One day, months into it, John sees Arthur approaching and turns directly away, traipses off straight out of camp. That’s the moment Arthur gets _angry_ for the first time. He picks up his pace, following behind John as he scurries off like a coward, then loops a wide circle around John’s path to cut him off in a surprise ambush. 

“Marston.” He comes to a stop a few feet in front of John and sneers in disgust when John’s eyes flicker around like he's searching for the easiest way out. “You been avoidin’ me.”

“No, I haven’t.” But only a fool would believe him when he can’t help looking at anything but Arthur. He always was a godawful liar.

“I do somethin’ to piss you off?”

John finally looks directly at Arthur with an expression that Arthur can’t make heads or tails of, some bizarre combination of guilt or annoyance maybe, but then he turns away and paces back and forth like he’s spooked and can’t stay still. “No.” He wipes his hand down his face nervously. “Christ.”

“Then why?” His anger sparks and Arthur wants to grab a hold of it, turn it against John just to have somewhere to direct it, aimed right at the person making him feel that way in the first place. “So you can get yourself killed when you act like a goddamn moron on a job?”

John scowls, always so quick to defend himself against Arthur’s criticisms. “It ain’t your business what I get up to on a job.”

Arthur huffs an unamused little snort and takes a step closer to John, squaring his shoulders in that way he does when he needs to look big and mean against someone who has something that he wants. Another step and he sneers when John backs up. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Marston.” He jabs his finger into John’s chest when his next wide step closes the distance between them. “Because _you_ are my business.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” John says on a gusted breath. He closes his eyes with a shake of his head and then Arthur feels the full force of his attention for the first time in months. “I just want some space.” As soon as he’s said it his eyes flicker away again, like all his courage to stand up for himself has deserted him. “I need to do my own thing for a while.” 

And Arthur can’t figure out why it _hurts_ to hear it, why the hell he even gives a damn. He worked on his own just fine before Dutch started sending John with him like a shadow. He turns his confused anger back on John. “Fine.” He shoves himself away with two hands pushed to John’s chest. “I work better without you there slowin’ me down anyway.” 

He regrets the parting shot when he sees the brief flicker of hurt flash across John’s face, there and gone again. But there ain’t nothin’ he can do for it. 

  


* * *

  


There’s a brief moment where Arthur thinks things might actually go back to how they was. Abigail starts running jobs with John after she has it out with Grimshaw one day. John’s real sweet on her, has been almost from the moment she was brought to camp by Uncle a couple years back. They’ve always got their heads together conspiring or gossiping, planning god knows what against god knows who. So it makes sense to Arthur that they’d start working jobs, Abigail the clever foil against unsuspecting marks, and John the muscle to seal the deal.

He somehow gets himself roped in on one of their jobs in a town not too far away robbing someone Abigail seems to hold a personal grudge against. They need a getaway, so Arthur is tasked with stealing a wagon and meeting up with them outside of the local doctor’s.

He starts worrying when things take longer than they said it would, has half a mind to abandon the wagon and go searching for them. His nerves build with each passing minute and then there’s the sound of gunfire breaking the tense quiet. “God damnit, Marston,” he mutters to himself. He hops off the wagon and runs toward the shooting, unholstering his own gun with his feet pounding hard into the mud outside a row of houses. 

He rounds the corner of the last house and stumbles upon John and Abigail crouched behind a couple crates riddled with bullet holes. John lifts his gun over the top and fires blindly at the two goons huddled near a house across the way, every bullet flying wide with dark grey smoke billowing from his old, worn gun. 

Arthur rolls his eyes and the second the two men pop back out of hiding he shoots, their bodies falling dead to the ground.

John swings around with his gun aimed right at Arthur’s face but immediately lets loose a relieved breath. He grins hard and holsters his gun with a twirl. “Nice shot. Wanted in on the action, huh?” 

“Who the hell was that?” But as soon as he asks there’s more shouting voices in the distance begging for the sheriff's aid. “Nevermind.” Arthur steps forward and ushers John and Abigail to run in front of him. “We gotta get out of here before more trouble shows up.”

They run in the direction of the wagon and slow to a measured walk as soon as they round the corner to avoid suspicion. Arthur hops in the driver’s seat while John and Abigail climb into the back, John slapping his hand against the wall with a quick muttered, “Go, go, go.” Then the two of them start giggling with each other in that way they do.

Arthur snorts and gets the wagon moving. He takes a nice leisurely stroll through town so he doesn’t draw any unwanted attention, tipping his hat with a friendly smile at people passing by.

Once they’re out of town he sets a faster pace until he finally pulls to a stop a few miles away, the three of them hopping off so they can abandon the wagon in the trees nearby where they hitched their horses to wait. 

“Here,” John slaps a handful of money into Arthur’s hand. “Your take for acting as getaway.”

“And for saving your asses.” 

John laughs. “And for saving our asses.”

Arthur stares down at the decent wad of cash in his hand, counts through it curiously. “Do I even wanna know what you did to procure this? And what the hell happened back there?”

Abigail and John grin at each other, but it’s Abigail who turns toward Arthur. “Let’s just say a man who done me wrong got what was coming to him and I’m sure the town will have a lot to gossip about when they find him how we left him.” 

“You wanna tell ‘im your last parting gift to that bastard, or should I?” John laughs and swerves away to avoid Abigail’s whack on his arm.

“Don’t you dare, John Marston!” 

Arthur huffs but doesn’t bother pressing the topic. “And the two bastards shootin’ at you?” At the looks on their faces, he chuckles and shakes his head. “You know what? I don't even wanna know.”

“They deserved it,” John grins.

“Oh, I’m sure they did.” 

  


* * *

  


But as quick as Arthur had been let in, he’d been shut back out. John got his use out of him, he supposes, and takes to ignoring him around camp again as soon as they get back. He goes off on jobs alone or with Abigail sometimes, the two of them with a genuine knack for getting up to all sorts of trouble together.

It’s on one of the rare occasions when John leaves Abigail behind that Arthur decides to press for insider information. He invites her to play a round of Dominoes and after she’s beat him twice he asks, his voice tipped as innocent and friendly as he can make it. “You got a clue what’s up with Marston, Abigail?”

She looks at him, her eyes piercing like she could see into his very core. “What do you mean?” she asks in the same deliberately innocent and friendly tone, the two of them well aware that she knows _exactly_ what he means. She places a piece down on the table and earns herself fifteen points. 

Arthur sighs, drops his own piece, and earns a paltry three. He stays quiet, refusing to dip into a back and forth with Abigail, and stares at her across the table.

She cracks under the silence with a roll of her eyes. “He needs some space.”

“Yeah.” Arthur tries not to let his annoyance slip. “That’s what he’s been tellin’ me for over a year now. But he won’t tell me _why_.”

She sits there staring at Arthur, hits her game piece on the table in a nervous _tap tap tap._ “John just…” She sighs. “He’s got a lot on his mind. He’s working some things out.”

Arthur’s annoyed by the vague answer, feels stupid for the foolish hope that she might share something worth knowing. He rolls his eyes and responds defensively the way he knows he does when he feels cornered. “That boy ain’t ever had a whole thought in his fool head, Abigail. You know that as well as I do.” 

“If you say so, Arthur.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Now._

Arthur sleeps like shit through the night, not that it’s really much of a surprise. He can’t get warm underneath the moth-bitten blanket that's been left behind on the bed, wonders how in the hell John can sleep with no problem even though he’s on the hard floor with nothing but his satchel for a pillow and his coat thrown over his upper body for warmth.

Arthur gives up the idea of trying to fall back asleep as soon as the first bit of light peeks through the uncovered window. The storm has stopped for now but the clouds are dark and angry looking like the sky’s only gathering its strength to rain down hell upon them again soon. He figures they only got a short window to check on the horses and gather some wood so they can get a fire going.

He sits up and grabs his cigarettes and matches from his satchel, lights up, and sits there smoking for a bit, the blanket wrapped tight around his body, willing himself to stand up in the freezing cold room and out of the tiny bit of warmth he’s managed to generate.

He nudges his boot into John’s side. “Marston.” He digs his toe in a little harder when there’s no response. “Wake up, Marston.”

John’s left eye peeks open and he squints up at Arthur. “What?” he asks groggily.

“We gotta check on the horses and gather some wood before the storm starts up again.”

John sighs miserably but sits up, rubs his balled up hands into his eyes with a yawn.

Arthur reaches out and hands him his half-finished cigarette. “Here. Finish that and then check on the horses, I’ll start gathering wood.” He rises to his feet and stretches with a yawn of his own. “Think I might freeze my balls off out there.”

John snorts under his breath as Arthur heads to the door. Arthur hates that he considers it a win.

  


* * *

  


It _is_ balls-freezing cold outside. He wants to turn around and stomp right back indoors the second he steps out into the snow, but he shuts the door behind him with a click and marches on into the nearby copse of trees. He lifts his hands up to his mouth to blow some air on them in a futile attempt at keeping them warm but then he’s gotta start tearing off branches from trees and hunt for any spare flammable debris he can find that’s somehow not yet been covered by snow or rendered useless by rain.

He’s out there for well over an hour scouring for material. The snow’s been falling again for a good fifteen minutes and is only getting heavier when Arthur finally calls it. He’s gathered a few bundles of kindling and wood that’s dry enough he thinks it’ll burn and set them in a pile outside the front door. When he gets back to the house with the last of his bounty, he can see smoke rising from the chimney, meaning John got a jumpstart on getting the fire going.

Arthur bumps the door open with his hip and drops his meagre armful on top of the pile of wood John brought inside. He slams the door once his arms are free, shutting out the freezing cold to keep the slowly growing warmth from the fire trapped inside. “Snow’s starting up again.” He drops to his knees in front of the fire and holds his numb hands out to the flame with a sigh of relief. “How are the horses?”

“Cold, but okay. I fed ‘em and got ‘em some water.”

Arthur nods. “Good.” He shifts around off his knees to sit on the floor close to the fire instead, letting his body slowly regain feeling in all his extremities.

They sit there in silence for a while and as usual these days, Arthur is the one who tries to break it first. “You hungry?” He digs in his satchel and pulls out some jerky, holds it out for John to take.

John stares at his hand for a few seconds then looks back down to the stick he must’ve stolen from one of Arthur’s hauls and is now whittling down to a point. “Already ate.”

Arthur shrugs and tears off a piece of meat with his teeth. “Suit yourself.”

  


* * *

  


Arthur wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of John tending the fire back to life. “Alright?” he murmurs, his voice scratchy, throat parched, and desperately thirsty. He leans over the bed and grabs his canteen out of his satchel, gulps down a few mouthfuls of water.

“Yeah, just got low. We’re gonna need bigger pieces of wood than this. It burns too fast.” He settles back down on the floor when he’s done and shuts his eyes to get some more sleep, oblivious to, or maybe just ignoring Arthur staring down at him.

Arthur sets his canteen on the ground and twists over onto his side to keep watching John. “Some of the trees out there looked dead. Could go out again tomorrow and knock a few of ‘em down. The barn might have an ax if we’re lucky.”

“Yeah.” John turns over again, putting his back to Arthur. “Alright.”

  


* * *

  


They both rise late the next morning having managed to get a fair bit of sleep for once now that it’s a little bit more comfortable, at least as far as the temperature goes. Arthur brews coffee on the fire and sits on the edge of the bed warming his hands around the metal cup. He looks up in the middle of blowing across his coffee to see John staring hard, his eyes fixed near Arthur’s lips. “What?”

John looks strange when his eyes flick up to meet Arthur’s, almost guilty, like he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Arthur grins like they’re both in on a joke, even one at his expense. “I got somethin’ on my face?”

John shakes his head and stares down at his own cup, lifts it to take a drink even though it’s gotta be too hot still. He grimaces when he swallows and that’s all the confirmation Arthur needs.

“You’re an idiot, Marston,” he snorts with a shake of his head.

John sighs. “Don’t I know it.”

  


* * *

  


They’re outside in the snow as soon as they’ve both finished their coffee and Arthur leads John into the tree line. He comes to a stop in front of a small oak. “See?” He points to the trunk. “It’s starting to peel off in layers here and the bark is starting to split.”

“Okay.”

“So we just gotta take a run at it, push it, and it’ll fall right over.” He waves at John to take a few steps away and then walks backs far enough he can get a running start. He jumps in place a couple times to warm up and then sprints, his boots digging deep into the snow with every stride. At the very last second, he raises his arms and thrusts them at the middle of the tree trunk, pushes hard, and maneuvers to the side so he doesn’t get tripped up by the roots when they rip up as the tree falls over. “See?” He turns and grins at John, standing proudly over his newly fallen tree. “Now you,” he points to another nearby tree. “Do that one.”

They only down a few of the trees before calling it quits, but it’s John’s last tree that starts up the mayhem, Arthur will hold to that to his dying day. He watches from the side as John _runs runs runs_ and then holds out his hands to topple the tree over except it holds firm and John falls backwards in a loud _thwump_ down into the snow.

Arthur can’t help himself. He stands in shock for all of a second and then he’s leaning over, his hands braced on his knees, laughing like he hasn’t in years. John surfaces from his man-sized snow-cave absolutely _covered_ in snow and Arthur laughs all the harder at the sorry state of him. 

John grumbles, an annoyed look on his face that’s absolutely ruined by the snow on top of his head and stuck to his eyelashes. He sits on his knees right there in the snow and scoops up a huge handful while staring Arthur down.

“Like hell, Marston.” But he’s barely got the words out before he’s got a face full of snow and then it’s John's turn to laugh at him instead. “Oh, you little shit,” he growls and leans over to pack his own tight ball of snow. He lobs it as hard as he can right back at John and crows triumphantly when he hits like a bullseye right to John’s throat.

“You goddamn bastard!” John yells through a choked out laugh and then it’s _war_. 

They both prowl around the forest in the great snowball battle of 1899. John’s hair is all but drenched after one too many snowballs to the head. Arthur swerves just at the last second and narrowly misses a snowball to _his_ balls. He retaliates by charging John and shoving a huge handful down the back of his shirt and laughs meanly when John roars at the shock of cold on his skin.

Arthur’s fingers turn red and sore from the cold long before they call it quits, but he declares victory and carves a quick, messy, _Here Rests JM’s Pride_ in the trunk of the still-standing tree. He grins hard when John rolls his eyes and then they lug their loot closer to the house so they can get to chopping. Arthur walks into and back out of the barn triumphantly holding an ax in the air. “You rather cut wood or clean up horse shit?”

John grimaces, his nose wrinkling. “Cut wood.”

“You got it,” Arthur chuckles and flips the ax in the air, catches it by the back of the blade, and extends the handle out for John to take.

He walks back into the barn and picks up the shovel leaning abandoned against the wall near the doorway, his mood so high he almost feels like whistling. 

  


* * *

  


John’s worked his way through chopping one of the trees into segments that will fit in the fireplace by the time Arthur’s done. He hovers near the door just watching as John lifts the ax in the air and swings it down hard to chop off another piece of wood. But his swing is a little wild, too much bend in his back that’s just begging for pulled and aching muscles come the next morning.

“You’ll hurt yourself throwin’ the ax around like that, Marston.”

John jumps, unaware of his audience, and turns to Arthur where he’s leaning against the side of the barn casually. “I got it.” 

But then he does the same damn thing, pulling the ax back too hard and running the risk of injury. Arthur pushes off the wall and walks closer. “I’m serious, Marston. Look here—” He settles just behind John and reaches around to grab a hold of his wrists. “You’re pulling way too far back. Stop here,” he lifts John’s arms in the air, his back leaning right against Arthur’s front in a brief blaze of warmth. 

John freezes where he stands, his body held rigid in Arthur’s arms, and he lets out a breath that Arthur can _feel_ stutter through his body. But then fast as a crack of lightning and thunder, he shoves Arthur off with a jab of his elbow and a snarl, turns around, and shoves him back farther. “I know how to cut wood, Morgan. Just back off!”

Arthur stands there rooted to the ground beneath the snow at his feet confused by the outburst. But he’s embarrassed too, John’s reaction almost absurd when he was just tryin’ to help a feller out. He feels defensive and that swiftly morphs into a pulsing desire to start the fight he’s felt brewing in the marrow of his bones for years now. 

But he’s also just...tired. Exhausted from the back and forth, John’s hot and cold moods. Things had almost felt the way they used to when they was toppling over the trees, the two of them laughing and giving each other a hard time. But just like before, John’s mood twists like the turn of a knife. A sharp and inexplicable slice right into Arthur’s skin.

He holds John’s gaze for a brief moment, just stares right into his dark eyes that confuse him all the time anymore. He’s been a fool to think a couple hours of good times was a change of anything at all. He breaks eye contact with a disgusted snort and turns on his foot, marches straight to the shack’s front door.

“Arthur—”

He walks inside and slams the door shut.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur refuses to budge from his place on the bed, unwilling to help out of a sense of pettiness when John carries in a few armfuls of chopped wood and sets them on the floor next to the fireplace a while later. He sits there with his back against the wall and his eyes staring holes into the open pages of his journal where he’s doodling nothing but unintelligible nonsense.

He’d be the first to admit that it’s awkward as anything for a good few hours after that, but he doesn’t feel any sense of urgency in fixing the problem. So Arthur sits drawing, John sits whittling, and they both hold on to the uncomfortable silence like a hand hovering over a pistol just waiting to be fired in a duel.

It can’t even be mid-afternoon yet when John sighs loudly. He shuffles around for a bit, adds another log to the fire, and then reaches for his satchel and sets things aside like he’s looking for something specific. He places a small stack of books on the floor with great care then starts rummaging around again.

“What are those?” Arthur breaks the silence first after all, as always.

John looks at Arthur briefly then back to the books before rustling around in his satchel some more. “Books.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But why are you luggin’ around a bunch of kids' books?”

“They’re for Abigail.” He shrugs and then emerges triumphant with a small bottle of brandy. He opens the cap and takes a sip. “She wants to learn how to read so I thought I’d try and teach her.”

And _god_ , he really is sweet on her. It’s such a thoughtful gift, one Arthur feels a little bad for being surprised John’s come up with all on his own. But he thinks she’ll love it. It won’t be long and Dutch will be plyin’ her with books on philosophy or the standard Evelyn Miller fare. Arthur just hopes she’ll keep calling him out on his shit. It’s always worth a good laugh seein’ Dutch uncharacteristically defensive.

“Give that here.” He holds out his hand for the brandy instead of saying anything meaningful and probably unwelcome anyway. They got a too-long day of waiting out more of this goddamn storm to wallow in awkward misery, might as well drink their way through until tomorrow.

  


* * *

  


Hours later, the night sky having gone pitch black a long ways back, they’re both drunk as hell and laughing their way through reliving good memories and steering clear of the bad ones. It’s like another switch in direction on a train track. Arthur’s not felt this warm in ages, John’s full attention aimed right back where it belongs now that enough alcohol’s got in his system. He’s laughing loud and bright in that way he does when he’s drunk, ribbing Arthur just as hard as he can take it.

They’re both on their backs in front of the fire, passing another bottle back and forth with several others they already finished scattered on the floor around them.

“I swear to god, Arthur,” John wheezes. “I swear, the next time I gotta drive one of the wagons I’m gonna sneak away with that goddamn gramophone and toss it over a cliff.”

“Dutch’ll kill you,” Arthur laughs. He sits up and leans over for another bottle, twirls off the cap, and flicks it across the tiny room.

“No, he won’t!” John rips the bottle—gin this time—out of Arthur’s hand with what can only be described as a giggle. “I’ll play dumb or tell ‘im it must’a fallen out the back.” He guzzles it down, then chokes on the burn.

“Gimme that.” Arthur snatches the bottle away and takes a drink. “Dutch’ll see right through you, Marston. ‘Cause you,” he points at John with one finger extended out from around the bottle and then takes another huge drink, “are a terrible liar.” He barks a loud, drunken laugh at the outraged look on John’s face.

“No, I’m not!”

“No?” He hands the gin back to John for another drink. “Then tell me again what happened to that box of chocolates that old widow gave me when I chased down that thief who stole her purse.”

John rolls his eyes. “I told you,” he says with drunken confidence. “There was this raccoon hangin’ around camp that day. I saw ‘im. You can ask Abigail.”

“Oh yeah,” Arthur laughs. “I’m sure Abigail would _never_ lie on your behalf, Marston.”

“Anyway,” he musters on, ignoring Arthur. “Next thing I know, he was at your wagon surrounded by trash and I said to him I says,” he slurs, “‘Hey you, raccoon! Don’t be eatin’ that!’ And all them chocolates was gone so I chased him off.” He takes another drink of gin lookin’ real proud of himself.

“Jesus Christ, Marston,” Arthur laughs hard, has to prop himself up on his knee with his hand when the room starts twisting and turning. “ _You_ was the goddamn raccoon!” He shoves at John’s shoulder but grips his hand tight in John’s shirt to stop him from falling right over backwards and ends up pulling him so hard John faceplants into his shoulder instead.

“Wasn’t,” John mumbles in his shirt.

“Was,” Arthur chuckles. He pats his hand against John’s back. “But hey, you wanna get rid of that damn thing then hell, I’ll help you. Goddamn opera music.”

“Goddamn opera music,” John repeats in disgust and butts his head hard into Arthur’s shoulder, rubs his forehead right along the fabric.

Arthur sighs happily, drunk on booze and attention, and smoothes his hand up and down John’s back thoughtlessly. He trails his hand up to cup against the back of his neck and squeezes, swears he can hear the click of John swallowing. But then John’s pulling back and it takes everything Arthur’s got to let him go.

“I need food,” John mumbles. He turns away from Arthur and paws around in his satchel, doesn’t bother pulling anything out for ages like he’s just wasting time, but then finally resurfaces with a can of baked beans. He grimaces in disgust when he sees it and Arthur can’t help himself, has to laugh at the look on his face.

“You gonna eat that?” he asks knowing full well that John would rather starve than eat cold, congealed beans, having ranted in disgust at Arthur several times over the years regarding his ability to all but drink it straight from the can. 

  


* * *

  


Arthur sleeps all the way into the afternoon the next day and wakes up with a train’s horn blaring directly into his brain. He groans hard, the sound held tight in the back of his bone-dry throat which just makes his head throb harder. He squints his eyes shut against the light coming in from the godforsaken window, even the murky storm clouds still too bright in the state he’s in.

His nose is freezing like the room’s gone cold but he feels strangely warm along half of his body save for his arm that’s gone completely numb. Confused, he squints one eye open and lifts his head only to nearly smash his nose into John’s forehead. He plops his head back down onto the flat pillow as hazy memories start waving in and out of focus like a mirage on a hot day.

He remembers drinking. A lot of drinking. And laughing. He lifts his head again and peers down at the floor where it seems like, yep, they drank through their whole supply of booze. The fire’s gone out, which explains why he’s so cold, both of them probably way too drunk to remember to tend to it.

He’s got about half a memory of John flopping down on the bed and declaring that he claims it as his own for the night and then Arthur had climbed right in alongside and the two of them had an honest to god drunken scuffle. Arthur emerged triumphant, naturally, and pinned John down to the mattress. John had gone stiff beneath him, staring up at Arthur all drunk and confused with his eyes gone wide and panting deep like he was winded. 

Arthur had stared down at him for a few moments, into dark eyes all hazy with booze and something darker, the unnatural rise and fall of his chest beneath Arthur’s hands. He rolled off of him and onto his side on the bed, his back pushed up against the wall, and told John to _go to sleep, you goddamn moron_. He assumes he passed out not long after that.

Now Arthur tilts his head down and looks at John again with the permission given by sleeping unaware. He’s got his face tucked into Arthur’s shoulder and the foulest breath Arthur’s ever had the displeasure of smellin’ wafting outta his open mouth and into Arthur’s face in a hot, stinky gust every time he exhales. Arthur can only guess how rank his own breath is, smacks his tongue a few times when the thought has him realizing just how disgusting his mouth tastes.

He twists his dead arm around underneath John’s back, the pins and needles of rushing blood a swift burn of relief, and tucks his fingers into the warmth of John’s side.

John snuffles and noses his way in closer to Arthur’s neck, his leg lifting across Arthur’s hips, and he hums all happy in his sleep. 

Arthur’s warmer with John lying half on top of him. He shuts his eyes, fully intent on dozing for a while, if not just to stop the room still spinning a little bit overhead. But then John’s hips twitch and oh hell, that’s—Arthur looks down the length of his body and into the shadowed curve of John’s hips where—yep, John’s hard. So hard it’s visibly tenting his pants and pressing right in against Arthur.

“Um,” Arthur says stupidly. He looks up at the ceiling unsure what to do and then back down to stare in confusion at John’s hips nudged right up on top of him. “Hey,” he mutters. He taps his fingers against John’s side. “Marston,” he says a little louder and digs a finger in hard.

“Mm?”

It’s a few long seconds of Arthur questioning what he should say or do next but then John’s eyes pop open in his peripheral vision. He rears back hard and so fast that Arthur doesn’t have a chance of catching him, can only watch as John crumples off the side of the bed to land hard on the floor, leaving a shocked chill along Arthur’s side.

“Oh god,” John mumbles, sounding horrified.

Arthur sits up and stares at him, confused by what looks almost like terror on John’s face.

“Whoa, John.” Arthur reaches a hand down to help him off the floor but stops when John scrambles away and up to his feet. “Look,” Arthur tries again. “Things happen. I—“

“I’m gonna go check on the horses.” He can’t even make eye contact with Arthur when he says it, just spins around and shoves his feet into his boots. He storms out like he’s his very own blizzard, the door slamming shut behind him, and leaves a confused Arthur sitting alone on the cooling bed.

  


* * *

  


Arthur sits there for a good while, his mind turning John’s reaction this way and that, gnawing at the problem like he could cut right through it. The inexplicable terror he’d seen on John’s face coupled with his hot and cold behavior the last couple days. For longer. John is a puzzle Arthur’s been trying to solve for years, one confusing and maddening in equal measure. He picks at the blanket twisted around his legs with the dawning realization that he might’ve just found some of the missing pieces and now he’s just gotta figure out where they fit.

But there’s anger bubbling there under his skin too if he lets his thoughts run free in that direction. John’s been avoiding him, running off on his own, leaving Arthur behind unsure of what went wrong for _over two years_ rather than just face the problem head-on. It’s that thought and the anger that comes with it that finally has him rising from the bed, the confusion that’s got him shoving his feet into his boots, and the growing number of questions that guide him outside to the barn because he needs _answers_.

He shoves the barn door open and lets it swing closed behind him. He stands there silently watching as John strokes his hand along Boadicea’s jaw, his face pressed in close to hers.

“What was that?” 

John shakes his head. “Leave me alone, Arthur.”

“No. You owe me answers, Marston. You been avoiding me for years now, running away like a spooked horse the second I get near you.” He walks the few feet it takes to hover close behind him. “So no more lies, no more hedging. Just tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

John turns around but he can’t look at Arthur, his eyes darting around over his shoulder instead. He chews on his lips and opens his mouth like he’s finally going to talk and… he _lies_.

Arthur _knows_ he’s lyin’. He snorts in disgust, his head bobbing in disgusted acknowledgement of the fact and his years-long simmering anger finally starts to boil over. The festering, gnawing ache of wondering why John has kept him at arm’s length when things had been _good._ Arthur and John, the two of them tearing along the West side-by-side. “Fuck you, John.” He shoves past him and grabs ahold of Boadicea’s reins, turns around to lead her out of the barn.

“What?” John asks, the panic obvious in his voice. “Where are you going?”

Arthur snorts in unamused disbelief. “Leavin’. I’d rather freeze to death out there than be stuck here with you, you goddamn liar.”

John looks stricken when Arthur glances his way but he ignores him, pushes open the barn doors, and takes a few steps outside. He’s yanked to a sudden stop by John taking hold of his wrist in a near bone-crushing grip. 

“Wait.” His eyes are wild when Arthur turns and stares at him expectantly. “Just—wait.” His breath shudders and he licks his lips nervously. But he keeps his eyes pinned to Arthur, digging deep for that long-buried courage. He takes a step toward Arthur, then another. He uses his grip on Arthur’s wrist to pull him in just that little bit closer. 

Arthur can do nothing but stare as the distance between them shrinks, his heartbeat a sudden thundering in his chest like it knows something his brain has yet to comprehend.

John's eyes bore into his steadily, looking scared but resolute. Then John leans in, his head tilting to the side, his eyelashes fluttering closed. It’s an eternity in a second and then Arthur feels the dry press of John’s chapped lips against his own. He holds his lips to Arthur’s for a second, then two, three. He doesn’t move, the only sign that any of this is happening and not a bizarre fever dream the shuddered breath John releases through his nose that Arthur can feel puff warm against his cheek. The seconds shatter and break when John pulls back. He looks directly into Arthur’s eyes and takes a step away. “That’s why.”

Arthur’s unsure of what to say, unsure what to think. He lifts his hand, touches his fingers to his lips, and stares right back at John. John, who’s brief expression of relief melts like ice into wariness the longer Arthur stands there in stunned silence.

And John must think he sees something in the shocked nothingness that Arthur feels because he sighs, disappointed and a little sad, and he walks past Arthur back to the house.

  


* * *

  


Arthur stays behind in the barn for hours. He sits on a barrel tucked in the corner and kicks his boot heels against the wood, practically aching for a cigarette he can’t have unless he steps foot inside the shack. He stands up and paces back and forth in the small barn for a while, only stops to pet Boadicea and Old Boy every now and then. All the while his mind is racing like lightning through memories of the last few years that suddenly make a lot more sense and then it all cycles back to the fact that John kissed him. John _wants_ to kiss him. 

He stays there in the barn until the sun goes down and then finally walks back to the house without a single goddamn clue what to say. He hovers inside the door as soon as he’s inside, the firelight casting shadows around the tiny room and along John’s back where he’s taken the bed solely for himself. 

Arthur stands there staring for so long he’s sure that John can feel his eyes piercing into his skin and straight through to sinew and muscle. But he still ain’t got a clue what to say, his brain a tangled web of thoughts that race by so fast he barely has time to glance their way. He drops to his knees on the floor—now _his_ bed for the night—but he doesn’t think either of them gets much sleep.

For his part, he can’t stop turning everything over all night long, his only reprieve when he sits up to add a log to the fire. He thinks about the way things used to be. The exhilaration of a job well done, John right by his side smiling bright, so pleased when Arthur broke and tossed a kind word his way. Drunken nights in camp sat around the fire talkin’ shit. Cheating at poker just so he could laugh when John’s cheeks went red in outrage when he finally caught on. 

He thinks about the white-hot fury when John would get hurt on a job, how it always felt so much like failure on Arthur’s part. Stitching up John’s skin when a bullet grazed his leg, tossing John’s arm over his shoulder so he could hobble to his horse with a twisted ankle, sitting next to Abigail alongside John’s bed while he recuperated from a wolf attack, the both of them worried sick that he weren’t gonna make it through. 

The twisted feeling he’s slowly realizing now might’ve been jealousy, the _envy_ when he’d look across camp at John and Abigail with their heads bent close, completely absorbed with each other.

The ache in his belly when John shut him out, went off on his own, and left Arthur behind to go it alone again. The confused anger when he just wanted to know _why_.

All that mixed together and he didn’t have a goddamn clue. Now _this_ and he still ain’t got a goddamn clue.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur sits up at dawn and brews some more coffee, too queasy to give eating a go. The wind is howling through the cracks around the windows and door like the weather’s decided to match the mood inside. It’s cold even with the fire burning hot, but he knows it’s all in his head, neither of them speaking a word for hours keeping the temperature well below freezing. At midday, Arthur decides he needs a breather. “I’m gonna check on the horses.”

He stands and pushes the door open but it barely moves a few inches, slamming hard into a wall of snow on the other side. He pushes a few more times, the door knocking down a little bit of snow to fall inside the room but not opening anywhere near wide enough for Arthur to squeeze through.

He sighs and decides to go out the window instead, desperate for some space so he can be alone for a while and borrow himself some more time to think. As if that’s done any good so far. He pops the window open and hoists himself out head-first, shimmying his way along the windowsill.

“You look like an idiot,” John mutters and Arthur arches around to see him staring hard at his whittling stick, the first one to break the awkward silence this time around.

“Thanks,” Arthur snorts and keeps shimmying the rest of the way out.

“You’re welcome.”

  


* * *

  


Arthur spends a few hours with the horses brushing them down and feeding them, but the whole damn time he’s got one thing on his mind.

_John_.

His every goddamn thought has been consumed by him the last twenty-four hours. Even longer if you consider the years he’s spent missing him. And he’s realizing now that he was all that time. Missing him, that is. His stupid laugh and all the dumb things he shouts in the middle of tense firefights.

It’s like a brand new obsession. A single-minded focus. As if his brain is caught in a never-ending cycle of dead-eye, all greyed out and moving slow except for John shining bright and standing out in the center of every thought that goes through Arthur’s goddamn fool of a head.

He walks back to the shack after shutting the horses inside and sighs in disgust when he remembers that he’ll have to shimmy his way back inside through the window again or dig his way through the snowdrift to the door. He opts for the window.

Things are still as uncomfortable as ever once he gets settled in front of the fire to warm up. But with all of it, every single thing that’s been on his mind since the kiss the day before, he’s only got one question he really wants to know the answer to anymore.

He turns around and stares at John where he’s sitting on his bed reading one of the books he got for Abigail. “All this time?” 

John shrugs, doesn’t say a word. 

“Tell me.”

John lifts his eyes from the book and stares hard at Arthur. “Yes.”

“What about Abigail?”

John snorts, sounding disgusted, and turns a critical eye on Arthur that reads loud and clear like he’s thinking Arthur’s the biggest shit-for-brains he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing. “She’s been everything to me. But we ain’t ever feel that way about each other.”

“Oh.” 

It’s still as awkward as ever after that, neither of them up for talking much. But when John tucks into bed that night with his back facing Arthur he makes a quick-fire decision. At the very least, he refuses to sleep on the cold, hard floor another night. Even if the bed is barely any more comfortable. He climbs on the bed behind John.

“What are you doing?” 

“Keeping warm,” he murmurs and tucks his face into the back of John’s hair. He wraps his arm around John’s middle underneath the threadbare blanket and leans into the warmth practically radiating off his back. He’s so close, near-cuddled in tight so he can feel exactly how tense John is holding himself. He nudges aside some hair that’s tickling his nose. “Just go to sleep, Marston.”

  


* * *

  


For his part, Arthur falls asleep pretty fast once he’s settled in, seeing as he didn’t get a wink the night before. He wakes late into the night feeling like he’s slept for days, tucked in warm and cozy with his arm still wrapped tight around John’s side. He yawns and crawls out of bed to add some more wood to the dwindling fire, sits there and draws John in his journal for a while just because he can. His watch ticks over to midnight sometime after that and he smiles to himself.

“Hey.” He shoves the bed to wake John up.

John grumbles out a “What?” that sounds more like, “ _Mrwaah_?” to Arthur but he doesn’t say a word about it.

“Merry Christmas.”

John sits up on the bed, the blanket pooled around his hips, and blinks hard at Arthur in the confused state of not-really-awake. “Huh?”

Arthur taps his pocket watch to signal what he means. “Christmas. I um—” He sighs, feeling suddenly stupid and nervous. “I got you somethin’.” He digs around in his satchel and pulls out a brand new cattleman revolver. He knee walks closer to the bed and then takes a seat on the edge so he can hand it over to John.

John stares at it in Arthur’s hand then slowly reaches out to take it.

“You’ve had my old cattleman for years now, figured it was time you had a new one of your own.” 

John sits there admiring it, the shining blackened steel and bone grip handle. He flicks the chamber open and gives it a twirl, snaps it closed. He peeks at Arthur for a second and then away to stare hard at his new gun. “I got something for you, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I was gonna leave it on the table by your bed, but well—“

He shifts to sit on the edge of the bed beside Arthur and leans over for his own satchel, fiddling around inside for a while in a way that’s got Arthur thinking he’s stalling. 

“That bad, huh?” Arthur jokes, smiling wryly.

John grins a small little thing that has Arthur pleased nonetheless and that’s all it takes for him to pull out Arthur’s gift. He hands it over like it’s a hot coal.

Arthur stares down at it wordlessly. He swallows hard. Licks his lips and bits down on his tongue, overwhelmed. He runs his hand down the front cover of the leather embossed journal. He’s seen it before. Almost a year ago now in a shop window in a town long forgotten except for the very thing he now holds in his hands. 

John fills the silence with nervous chatter. “I saw you eyeing it up in that shop. You remember that woman Dutch hustled for that map that turned out to be a fake? She kept going on about what a ‘charming young man’ I was so I went back to her house, got her drunk, and let her grab my ass all she wanted for a few hours. Then I stole a few pieces of her jewelry and rode back to that town and bought it.”

“That was almost a year ago.”

John shrugs and fiddles nervously with the engraving on his new gun.

“Jesus, John.” He runs his fingers over the carving of his mother’s favorite flower standing proud right in the center like a whisper of her memory. He turns toward John, takes in the stain of red on his cheeks like he’s embarrassed, his eyelashes dipping down to hide his eyes when he looks at the floor trying to avoid Arthur’s too-intense gaze. Arthur lifts his hand and runs the back of his fingers down the scars on John’s cheek, smiling softer than he has in years when John finally looks up. With his eyes still held open, he leans in closer until his lips touch John’s, wordless gratitude he could never say pressed in a warm kiss. He pulls back just far enough that he can take a breath to steady his suddenly racing heart. 

John’s eyes are wild when they open and all Arthur wants to do is kiss him again. He huffs quietly when he realizes that he _can._ He can kiss John all he wants because John _wants_ him. Has wanted him for years. He laughs again at the thought, a self-deprecating thing now that he’s realizing he’s been such a goddamn blind fool of a man. John scowls after the second laugh, looks about half a second away from yanking back and retreating to god knows where. But Arthur just shakes his head with a small smile and lifts his hand again, tips his fingers against John’s chin to tilt his face just right for another kiss.

It’s like a question at first. A tentative exploration. _Is this alright?_ And John’s answering _Are you sure?_ Arthur leans in harder, his hand sliding around to cup the back of John’s neck, his fingers slipping into his hair, and he takes the initiative he knows John won’t and deepens the kiss. He smiles at John’s quiet hum, pulls back again a few moments later just to press his lips to John’s in a few more quick kisses before leaning in again for more.

And it’s good, is the thing. Better than Arthur ever would’ve thought if he’d had half a mind to think it. John takes what Arthur gives him, tips down onto his back when Arthur nudges him over and they lay there kissing until Arthur’s lips feel raw from John’s beard. Deep kisses with little room to breathe, playful nips and bites in between. 

They finally pull back when the cold starts seeping into the room, the fire dwindled down to almost nothing. “I got it,” Arthur murmurs. He stands and throws a couple logs in the fireplace and then picks up the discarded journal and tucks it away inside his satchel, sets John’s gun aside safely too.

John watches him from under the ratty blanket now, flushed like he thinks all of it might be too good to be true. 

So Arthur’s gotta disabuse him of that notion real quick. He climbs under the blanket and nestles in close to John’s body, throws his leg pointedly over John’s hip in a mimicry of the debacle the day before, and leans in close like he means to start kissing him all over again. But at the last second, he veers off-course and bites John on the neck instead, a playful sinking in of his teeth just to be an asshole.

“Fuck,” John grunts. He grabs a hold of Arthur’s hair at the base of his neck and uses it to pull him away and back up into another kiss.

  


* * *

  


When they next wake up, the sun is shining too-bright right into Arthur’s face. He groans, an unhappy sound shoved right into John’s temple. But he feels warm tucked in close to John and honest-to-god snuggles in closer with a little hum buried deep in his throat that he’ll deny to hell and back. 

John stretches, yawning wide and breathing a noseful of morning breath right into Arthur’s face.

“Tasty,” Arthur murmurs. But he smiles right into a kiss when John scowls all nice and grumpy.

They pull away eventually and it’s John who points out the obvious. “Sun’s out.”

“Fuck it. Give it another day, let some of the snow melt.” Arthur paws his way under John’s shirt and into the buttons of his union suit to warm up his fingers on John’s skin, grinning in delight when John shivers.

  


* * *

  


They’re sitting cuddled in front of the fire later that day. They pulled the sad excuse for a mattress down hours back just to pad the hard floor a bit and wrapped themselves up in the blanket as best as they could. John’s back is pressed to Arthur’s chest, giving him the perfect excuse to periodically press kisses along his skin or sink his teeth in just to laugh when John startles every single time.

Arthur realizes right there on that shack’s floor that he’s happier than he’s been in years, probably the happiest he’s been since the last time he and John were near-glued together. He snorts in disgust at himself for not realizing everything sooner. Thinks he might take a swipe at John’s head one of these days for not saying a damn word on his end, even if he knows why he didn’t. He wraps his arms around John and squeezes just because he can and bites into John’s shoulder again when he hums softly.

He catnaps for a while and when he wakes up he finagles his cold hand under the blanket thrown over John’s lap. At first, it’s just for the warmth but then he can’t help himself or his newfound curiosity, and he cups John’s soft cock trapped underneath all his godforsaken clothes.

“Um,” John mumbles.

Arthur noses behind John’s ear with a grin he hopes John can’t feel. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Playing,” he murmurs and cups his hand harder, his fingers curling slightly in a gentle hold. He lets loose a small, pleased noise into John’s ear when he feels his hips twitch in a way that’s got him thinkin’ he might just explore what other reactions are there to be discovered. He fiddles with one of the buttons on John’s union suit.

“You are _not_ sticking your hand in there.”

“Why not?” Arthur scoffs.

“Your hand’s freezing.”

Arthur snorts and pulls his hand away to rest higher around John’s waist instead, but not before leaving a sly little pat over the top of John’s cock. He sits there silently for a bit, watches John’s toes move up and down under the blanket pulled tight over his feet. “You know what’s not freezing?”

“What?” John asks and Arthur laughs when he hears the wariness in his voice.

“My mouth.”

“Jesus, Arthur.” He turns his head to look back at him in disbelief. “Ain’t that a little fast? It weren’t even three days ago I kissed you and you looked like you been shot in the gut.”

“Maybe.” Arthur huffs and butts his head into John’s shoulder for the comment. “But maybe I’ve been waiting for and wanting you all them years and I just didn’t know in what way yet.” He feels like an idiot as soon as he stumbles his way through the awkward jumble of what he’s been thinking since he held that journal in his lap the night before. Since John first kissed him right there outside the barn.

“Jesus, Arthur,” he mumbles again. He turns in Arthur’s arms. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Why not?” 

“Because—,” he scowls. And then definitively, “Because.” He leans in and kisses him.

  


* * *

  


They really do head out the next day. They’re just walking their horses outside of the barn when Arthur pulls back on John’s wrist and shoves him against the wall right where John had kissed him a few days before. He cuts John off when he opens his mouth to talk, “Wait, John.” Then it’s Arthur’s turn to kiss him outside the barn, and he hums all happy when John wraps his arms around him and kisses right back.

“God,” John whispers and yanks him down into another kiss when he half-heartedly tries to pull away. But it’s barely any time later when he pushes Arthur away again. “Oh, god,” he murmurs, looking worried. “Abigail’s gonna kill me for making her worry.”

Arthur laughs, kisses him one more time just because he _can_. “Well, let’s get you back then.” 

They set off back to town, riding over ground covered in snow that shines bright under the sun, the two of them side-by-side.

🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️ _The End_ ❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Christmas Eve Eve! Happy end of 2020 too! May 2021 be a billion times better for you and your loved ones. 
> 
> A few end of story notes:
> 
> \- A few weeks ago I was listening to [White December](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIDLPxY04J8) by Kylie Minogue and had my first inkling of inspiration for a Christmas Morston fic, all of which can be found in the last chapter here. The song itself is obviously more modern in storytelling than this story, but I think you can still pinpoint the relevant bits. I think it's a really cute song so throw it a listen if you'd like!
> 
> \- Arthur's gift/John's gun. So earlier in the story, when Arthur was thinking back on that job he went on with John and Abigail, he noticed John's gun fired wildly and had grey smoke. That was my little way of hinting that he noticed the gun was too worn for use now and he eventually decided he'd buy John a new one. But _the reason_ John keeps a worn out gun when he could buy a new one easily enough is because it was _Arthur's_. Hand-me-downs through the gang is something I play with a little bit in other stories and I just like the idea overall. I absolutely could see them passing supplies around as needed. But ANYWAY. Now that Arthur has gifted him his own custom designed gun, John'll go ahead and switch over to using that instead. If he keeps the old gun stashed hidden in his trunk that's his little secret! 😉
> 
> \- I told myself that if I finished this by the deadline I'd set that I could leave you with this last really awful joke as a reference to this last part of the story.
> 
> *clears throat*
> 
> To the tune of Shots by LMFAO ft Lil Jon:
> 
> SOFT SOFT SOFT SOFT SOFT SOFT!!!
> 
> LMAO. Forgive me.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you liked this bit of Christmas silliness! 😊


End file.
